Tavis Stewart was forced to smile. “Aye, ‘tis novel,” he agreed, “but nae for Arabella.”
“I know ye love her, Uncle, but she’s a strong woman,” the king said. “Ye think because she is small of stature that she canna survive wi’ out ye, but yer wrong.”
“I know she can survive wi’ out me, Jamie,” the earl told his nephew. “She is a strong, independent woman, and has already proved her capability, but I dinna want her to hae to survive wi’ out me, Jamie. Can ye understand that? I dinna think so, laddie, for ye’ve never loved a woman. Oh, ye’ve made love to them, but hae ye really loved one?”
“Had ye asked me that question a month ago, Uncle, I should hae had to tell ye nay, but now that I know my sweet Meg, ‘tis different than before,” the king admitted. “The thought of being wi’ out her is nae to be borne. I canna imagine how I could hae been happy before I met her.”
The earl nodded.”Then perhaps ye do know how I feel about my wee spitfire, Jamie.” Tavis Stewart grinned wryly at the king. “Very well, laddie, I will escort the ‘blushing bride’ to France for ye,” he said, “but warn Lady Morton that I’ll nae be irritated by her bad behavior. She’s to conduct herself properly, or the French duc over the water will be a widower before he’s a bridegroom, I swear it!”
The king laughed, saying, “I will tell Sorcha that she must be good, but I can nae guarantee she will, Uncle.”
Strangely, however, Lady Sorcha Morton was a model of propriety during the whole of the journey. She was more subdued than at any time since Tavis had known her. Frankly curious, he joined her in her coach just before they reached Paris. Lady Morton rode alone, for she preferred it that way. Her female servants had their own vehicle.
“Jamie must hae lectured you sternly,” he teased her, and Sorcha Morton smiled.
“He did nae hae to, Tavis. I dare nae jeopardize this marriage. It is, I think, the last chance I shall ever have, and who knows, I may even be happy.”
“Hae ye fallen so low then, Sorcha, that ye would wed a man who sometimes thinks he’s a hound?” he asked her, regretting the unkind words even as he spoke them, remembering his conversation with the king, and Arabella’s own difficult position.
“‘Tis an honorable offer,” Sorcha Morton replied with dignity, “and I need a husband, my lord. The late Lord Morton left me quite penniless, as ye well know, and my fine Douglas relations hae given nothing but their scorn. I whored to earn my daily bread, Tavis, but I no longer hae the freshness of my first bloom, and I wish to settle down now that I hae had my fill of adventuring. I am twenty-four years old. Who could I wed wi’ at home? This French husband I am to hae will know nothing of me but that I am a suitable match, and I hae been sent by the king of Scotland to be his bride. My naughty past will be my own business, and I assure ye that I shall be a model wife to the duc.
“I am told that his delicate health keeps him at his chateau in the Loire Valley most of the year. ‘Twill suit me fine. I will hae my bairns, and after I hae given the duc a houseful of heirs, perhaps I will come to court. I will be a respectable matron then, and whatever may hae happened in my past will be long forgotten by any in France who might know of my reputation. Ye mock me because I would wed a man who suffers from fits, but tell me, Tavis Stewart, what man, if any, is perfect? Ye surely are nae. Did yer own wife nae divorce ye?”
“Touché, madame,” he admitted. “Forgive me, Sorcha, that I spoke roughly to ye, but I fear for ye so far from home and wed to a madman.”
“Not so much that ye would make me an offer yerself, Tavis Stewart,” she mocked him.
“I hae a wife,” he said.
“Who left ye, my lord,” she reminded him again, and then she laughed. “Besides, yer nae good enough for me now! I’ll hae the duc for all his madness, and my bairns will walk wi’ kings.” She drew a miniature from her satin drawstring bag and showed it to him. “This is my duc,” she said. “He dinna look as if he is dangerous.”
The earl took the little painting and gazed at it. The Duc de St. Astier had a narrow, esthetic face with a long nose and a full, sensuous mouth. His eyes were a watery blue, and his hair a dull brown, into which the artist had attempted to instill some life by painting in golden highlights. If his look was vacant and without expression, at least he did not look cruel, Tavis Stewart thought. Perhaps Sorcha Morton had not made such a bad bargain after all. “He looks a gentle laddie, Sorcha,” the earl told her. “Be kind to him.”
“He is rich, Tavis,” she replied, her amber eyes glittering in anticipation, and in that moment he saw a glimpse of the old Sorcha Morton. “I shall hae any and everything I ever wanted,” she told him excitedly.
Because the wedding had been arranged between the regent, Madame Anne, and King James, it would be celebrated at Notre Dame, the great cathedral on the Ile de la Cité near the royal palace. King Charles rarely stayed in the royal palace, preferring his Hotel de Valois on the occasions when he was forced to come up to Paris from his beloved Amboise. Immediately after the nuptials the entire court would leave for the Loire Valley. It was already late spring, and with the warm weather, there was always the threat of plague.
As the representative of the King of Scotland, it was Tavis Stewart’s duty to escort Sorcha Morton to the altar where her bridegroom awaited her. She was magnificently gowned in rich cream-colored satin, heavily embroidered in pearls, which quite suited her red hair, caught up in a gold caul. Her long train was of cloth of gold and fell from bejeweled bands on her shoulders. It was embroidered with both the Douglas and the St. Astier coats of arms.
The Earl of Dunmor almost stumbled over his own feet when his eyes found Arabella Grey, and if he was startled when he saw her, her look was one of far greater surprise. She seemed to be escorted by two gentlemen, a small fellow with a merry smile, who was dressed in green and gold satin, and a tall, handsome man garbed in deep rose silks who seemed almost proprietary of Arabella’s person. She was fetchingly gowned in pale pink silk and cloth of silver.
“She’s his whore, I’m told,” Sorcha murmured softly, also noting Arabella. Within minutes of becoming the Duchesse de St. Astier, Lady Morton was quickly recovering her previously lost spirit, as well as her vitriolic tongue.
Arabella was finding it hard to breathe. The press of unwashed bodies in the cathedral had been bad enough, but to suddenly see Tavis was, she was certain, more than she was quite up to this day. She had been glad when Adrian had told her that they had finally found a bride for poor Jean-Claude Billancourt. He was a kind man for all his infirmity. An infusion of fresh blood, Adrian had said, that would hopefully eradicate the madness in the next several generations of the Ducs de St. Astier. Learning the bride’s identity, Arabella had wisely held her tongue. She was hardly in a position to criticize. Sorcha Morton might have the morals of an alley cat, but if James Stewart had sent her to France, there was a good reason for it. Tavis Stewart, however, was a different matter.
“What is it?” Lord Varden murmured softly to her, seeing her look of consternation.
“The gentleman escorting the bride is my…is Tavis Stewart,” Arabella said low.
Tony nodded understandingly.
Arabella heard neither the choir nor the droning sermon of the Bishop of Paris, who was performing the ceremony. She had thought that she had come to terms with herself regarding her position as Adrian Morlaix’s mistress. It was hardly a secret, but both she and Adrian were well-liked. It had been expected from the moment he had seen her and evinced his desire to have her that she would eventually be his. Their behavior was discreet and their relationship accepted. When she returned home to England, it was unlikely anyone would learn of her French involvement, as she had come to think of it. Now, here was Tavis Stewart come amongst them, and she already felt the censure in the stiff set of his neck.
Sorcha Morton was once again a married woman. Here in France she would not be known by her Celtic name, Muire Sorcha. Her name would be Frenchified, and she would be Marie-Cl
aire, Duchesse de St. Astier. It quite suited the woman who now swept proudly down from the altar on the arm of her bridegroom. At the great doors to the cathedral the newly married couple greeted their guests. The duchesse’s amber eyes narrowed as Arabella was presented to her, and she might have made some scathing comment, but Arabella curtsied prettily and, wishing the bride and groom good fortune, passed quickly by. Behind her, however, Adrian was caught by poor Jean-Claude Billancourt, who was pitifully eager to show off his beautiful wife. The crowds closed about Arabella, cutting her off from her escorts.
“So, madame,” a familiar voice hissed in her ear, “I come to France to find ye playing the whore. Is there nothing ye will nae do in order to regain possession of that wretched scrap of borderland known as Greyfaire?” He could have bitten off his tongue even as the words spilled angrily from his mouth. This was not what he wanted to say to her. This was not the way he had meant to begin, but when he had seen her with the Duc de Lambour, he had known that all Jamie had told him was true.
“How dare you accost me?” she hissed back, shaking off his hand on her elbow.
His fingers closed cruelly about her arm, halting her flight. “Ye owe me an explanation, madame!”
Arabella looked angrily up at him. “I owe you nothing, my lord,” she said fiercely. “You forfeited your rights over me when you failed to honor your promise to me to retrieve my property. It was not even for me, Tavis. It was for our child.”
“And where is our daughter?” he demanded.
“Safe, and where you will not find her!” Arabella snapped.
“In Henry Tudor’s nurseries, ye mean,” he said.
Suddenly Arabella’s face crumbled and she looked eagerly to him. “You’ve seen our Margaret? Is she well? Is she happy? Did she remember you?”
In that moment all his anger dissolved. “Nay,” he said. “Yer English king would nae let me see her. It was last autumn. Ye’d already left for France.”
“My dear.” Anthony Varden was by her side. “Before the duc sees you and wonders with whom you are speaking so heatedly, we had best go.”
Arabella nodded, but Tavis Stewart said fiercely, “I’ve come to take my wife home, sir, and who the hell are ye in the first place?”
“I am Anthony Varden, my lord earl, and your behavior, however well-meaning, is placing Arabella in a most difficult position. You would not want her sacrifice of these past months to be in vain, now would you? Find your way to Adrian, my dear, while I give Lord Stewart your excuses,” Lord Varden said quietly, placing his small frame directly in the path of the Earl of Dunmor.
“Arabella!” His voice cut into her heart like a knife, but she did not falter as she moved away from him.
“My lord, come with me and we will talk,” Lord Varden said, escorting his companion out of Notre Dame and into the great square in front of the cathedral. “I have been expecting you for some months now, my lord,” Anthony Varden said bluntly. “The king wrote me that you had been to Sheen.”
“I understood that you were an exile, Lord Varden,” the earl said. “An enemy of King Henry.”
“So it is said,” Anthony Varden replied with a gentle smile. Then his voice became urgent. “My lord, you must not interfere with Arabella. Soon she will have what she has come to France for, and King Henry will return Greyfaire to her. You took Greyfaire from her once, my lord. Do not do it again, for she will certainly then never forgive you.”
“What do you know of me and of Arabella?” the earl asked angrily. He was beginning to realize that he was in the middle of a situation he could not control.
“Everything, my lord, for Arabella and I have become good friends,” Lord Varden said gently, seeing the earl’s rising frustration and feeling sympathetic toward him. “Exiles often do, you know. My home was near York.”
“You are a spy,” the earl said softly, suddenly comprehending, “and you and Henry Tudor have made my wife a spy as well.”
“Your wife has fought for her property as hard as any man. That her methods and weapons have not been what you would use does not matter, my lord earl,” Lord Varden told him.
“Are ye nae afraid that I will betray ye, sir?” Tavis Stewart said.
Lord Varden grinned up at the big Scotsman. “Now why would you do that, my lord? Do you not love Arabella Grey? Are Scotland and England not at peace? Has not King Henry offered his infant daughter, the Princess Margaret, born last November, to your own king as a wife? Why, my lord, we are practically family.”
Tavis Stewart could not help laughing at his last remark. “My nephew will nae accept an English wife, man, but yer right. Our countries are at peace. Still, I dinna like the idea that Arabella is in any danger.”
“You love her greatly, I can see,” Lord Varden said. “It’s written all over your face, my lord, but under the circumstances, I would prefer you masked your cow eyes toward Lady Grey. When she has returned to England, my lord, then you two may settle your differences and reacquaint yourselves. France is not the place to do this, and now is certainly not the time. Go home, my lord earl. Arabella is in no danger except through you. The Duc de Lambour is a very jealous man.”
“She is my wife,” Tavis Stewart said stubbornly.
“She was your wife,” Lord Varden answered him.
“I dinna recognize the divorce,” the earl replied.
“You do not have the luxury of that choice, my lord,” Lord Varden told him. “You say you love her and you fear for her safety, yet you persist in endangering her. I do not understand you.”
Tavis Stewart groaned with despair as the reality of the situation hit him. He had stumbled into something that had absolutely nothing to do with him, and what was worse was that Lord Varden was correct when he said that if he, Tavis, could not mask his passions for Arabella, he would endanger her safety. He had to go. Besides, he could not bear to stay and watch the Duc de Lambour being so possessive of her without soon giving in to jealousy and rage. “I will leave tonight,” he said to Lord Varden.
“She’ll be home soon, my lord, and once she is at Greyfaire, perhaps you will come raiding again,” he finished with a smile.
“She told you how we met?” the earl said.
“Aye,” Lord Varden told the earl. “‘Twas a bold thing you did when you carried her off.”
“And she has never forgiven me for it,” the earl said sadly.
“But she will once she has regained Greyfaire,” said Lord Varden wisely, “for she loves you too, my lord. She has never denied it.”
The wedding guests adjourned to the palace, just a short stroll from the cathedral, where a small banquet was served to celebrate the Duc de St. Astier’s nuptials. Afterward, and with almost indecent haste, the king and his friends departed for the Loire. The king feared that the cherries in his orchards at Amboise would ripen and spoil before he got there. They were his favorite fruit.
“We shall have a fete, Adrian,” he said loudly to the Duc de Lambour, “and you, ma petite rose d’Anglaise, will rule over my fete as its queen of beauty and love. Will you like that?”
Arabella smiled winsomely at King Charles and curtsied most prettily. “I shall be honored, Sire,” she said.
“You look exactly like a cherry blossom in that gown of yours, madame,” the king continued. “‘Tis a most fetching pink, is it not, Adrian?”
“I adore ma Belle in any of her gowns,” the duc replied gallantly.
“Or without them,” the king said wryly, and led the ensuing laughter.
The new Duchesse de St. Astier looked hard at Arabella, and turning to her husband, asked softly, “Why does the king make such a fuss over the Duc de Lambour’s whore?”
Jean-Claude Billancourt blanched. “Marie-Claire,” he said in quiet but disapproving tones, “the Duc de Lambour is the king’s close and dear friend. As for Madame Grey, perhaps she is indeed the duc’s chere amie, but there is no harm in it. She is a most charming and delightful woman who is well-liked by all here. She has ma
ny friends and is quite respectable. Perhaps you are not used to such things, coming from an uncivilized and backward land like Scotland, but here certain relationships are tolerated as long as they are discreet. You will have to learn to hold your tongue, chérie, else I dare not let you associate with polite society.” He patted her hand. “I’m certain that you will learn quickly, Marie-Claire, ma belle femme, n’est-ce pas?”
Sorcha lowered her head as if with remorse and bit back the sharp reply that rose to her lips. There would be time, she decided, once she had established herself in her husband’s affections, to wreak her revenge upon Arabella Grey for the slights that had been inflicted upon her several years ago, when Arabella was the Countess of Dunmor. How the mighty had fallen, Sorcha thought with satisfaction. She looked up at her husband. “Of course, mon mari,” she said in sweetly lisping tones, “and you will teach me all I need to know, will you not?”
The besotted bridegroom kissed his wife’s smooth, perfumed hand eagerly, his eyes straying to her half-naked bosom. “We shall stay the night in Paris at my hotel,” he said meaningfully. “Tomorrow is time enough to be on the road, chérie.”
The court adjourned to the Loire Valley, where Lady Grey and Lord Varden were the guests of the Duc de Lambour at his charming and intimate chateau, Rossignol. The chateau, a Gothic structure with whimsical pepper-pot turrets, sat on a hillock overlooking the river. It was surrounded by a forest on three sides, but on the fourth a vineyard rolled down to the Loire. Rossignol was positioned in such a way that it appeared to be the only habitable structure for miles, although it was not. It was actually just several miles’ distance from the king’s home at Amboise.
“Does your wife never come here?” Arabella asked her lover. She had been comfortably settled in an apartment immediately next door to that of the duc’s rooms, which were obviously meant to be those of the duchesse.
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